


like that ring i never won

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 08:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20112313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: “Smile!” James says, holding his phone up. “We’re going on vacation!” Russ glares at him, but James takes the picture anyway.





	like that ring i never won

**Author's Note:**

> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it.
> 
> title from post malone (sorry, i know, but it fit too well not to.)

Russ doesn’t have any kind of feelings about Houston, one way or another. The highways remind him of LA, the blank skyscraper faces of OKC. The soupy humidity of the Gulf air is wholly unfamiliar.

James takes him out to get pho, his first night there. All his boxes are still packed, sitting in his empty new house. Russ guesses it’s good to start learning his way around. 

“I like the hair,” James says, between slurps of noodles. “You keeping it?”

“Felt like time for a new look,” Russ says. There’s a giant neon sign on the wall: a blue fish and a giant pink soup bowl. He pulls out his phone, takes some pictures on portrait mode of James, the light trapped in his beard, striking off the planes of his face.

“Send me the good ones,” James says. He’s used to Russ taking pictures of him by now. In high school, one of Russ’s uncles got him a camera for his birthday, nothing fancy, although it had felt that way at the time. Somewhere in one of his boxes, there’s still some prints of James, mid-jump shot, one of him with his brow furrowed in concentration working on his Euro step. They’re not that good, but Russ likes them anyway.

“Yeah,” Russ says, flipping through the pictures, going further back, absently. “Just don’t Insta them.” There’s one of the LA skyline, lit up at night, from the hotel room Paul’d gotten in Westwood last month, the half moon over the city. It’s a little blurry. Russ deletes it, keeps swiping back.

“Course,” James says. They sit in silence, James eating and Russ on his phone. Finally, Russ can’t stand going back anymore, so he sends James the pictures and puts his phone down.

“Those are really good,” James says. “I don’t even look stupid.”

“Of course they’re good,” Russ says. “I took them.”

James laughs. “Here, let me take one of you.” 

Russ looks down at his outfit, considering. It’s not bad. “Sure,” he says.

“Stop scowling at me, Jesus, at least can you pretend you like me?”

“No,” Russ says, laughing at James despite himself. “You happy now?”

“Yup,” James says, handing his phone over to Russ so that Russ can see the pictures. They’re not bad, catching Russ when he’s looking up at James, a soft smile on his face. 

“I guess you don’t have to delete them,” he tells James. 

“Wow, thanks,” James says, through another mouthful of noodles. He grabs his phone back from Russ, opening up Insta and then leaning back in his chair so that Russ can’t see his screen; probably DMing some girl he knows Russ would mock him about. Russ looks down at his own food. There’s no one he wants to text.

It’s fine, it’s good, being back with someone he can be quiet with. James doesn’t care if Russ is surly or tired, if he doesn’t feel like talking. He never brings up the things Russ doesn’t want to think about, understands the silent set of Russ’s shoulders and doesn’t push. He’s easy to be with. 

Across the table, James is typing away, half smile on his face. Russ squeezes some more lime into his broth and keeps eating.

\---

Russ spends the next day supervising the movers unpacking his stuff. He hates it, hates strangers touching his stuff, the dust and the trash everywhere. His agent made them all sign NDAs, but it still rankles. Afterwards, he sits on his pool deck, his feet in the water, watches the pink red gold bleed of the polluted sunset.

It’s quiet, just the buzz of cicadas in the air. As it gets darker, the lightning bugs come out. Everything feels foreign; the sticky heat catching in his throat and his lungs. The pool lights, shining up through the water, throw distorted shadows across the patio. Russ’s hands look unfamiliar to him in the haunted blue light. 

Next to him, his phone vibrates. It’s an Instagram DM. He swipes the banner and goes cold. It’s to an old private account, one he hasn’t used in three years. 

They’d both made fake accounts together, one night, what feels like a lifetime ago. Russ had handed over his phone and let Kevin make his, and of course Kevin had made his handle something incredibly stupid, @ilovekevin3569420, and made his avatar the goofiest picture of Kevin that Russ had saved on his phone: Kevin, lying in Russ’s bed, his face scrunched up, furious about Russ waking him up.

Russ never deleted the account. He should have. His jaw is clenched so hard it hurts, his shoulders pulling taut like he’s about to fight. 

The DM is from Kevin’s actual account, just a picture. It’s Kevin, in what looks like a club, a beautiful woman leaning against him and smiling at the camera. Russ puts his phone down with vicious care. 

He pulls off his shirt, shucks off his shorts and dives into the water. He leaves his eyes open and the world distorts around him, the chlorine stinging them. The water’s soft against him. When he comes to the surface he’s gasping for air, wiping furiously at his eyes, even though he wasn’t under for very long.

\---

He spends the night after his first press conference with the Rockets at James’s place. There’s a party, everyone’s kids and wives and girlfriends and cousins filling the place up. Russ keeps seeing shadows in the corner of his eye, turning expecting someone to be coming up behind him, a hand on his shoulder, but no one’s there.

Finally, James’s terrifyingly competent party planner kicks everyone out. James flops on the couch, eating leftover chips out of the bowl. Russ sits down next to him.

“You think they like me?” he asks, leaning forward, resting his arms on the top of his legs. He’s tired; hasn’t been sleeping well.

“They will,” James says. “And if not, fuck em.”

“You didn’t tell everyone what a shitty teammate I am?” Russ jokes, or tries to. 

“Fucking Christ,” James says. “You need to relax.” He leans to the side, rummaging through a box on the side table and pulling out a ziplock bag.

“Want a gummy? They’re peach.” Without waiting for a reply, he pops two into his mouth.

Russ holds out his hand. He doesn’t get high often anymore, and only with James. It’s probably a bad idea. 

“If we end up watching Spongebob all night I’ll kill you,” he says. He eats a gummy, artificial sweetness unable to cover up the bitter aftertaste that lingers in the back of his mouth afterwards. 

“We can braid my beard and talk about boys,” James says, hauling himself off the couch. “Come on, put on some sweats, how are your jeans so tight.” 

“I hate you,” Russ says, and holds his hand out for James to pull him up.

\---

They end up flopped in James’ king-sized bed, Russ in an oversized Rockets t-shirt, a giant 13 on his chest, and a pair of James’s old shorts. It feels weird, a little bit. Russ never wore Kevin’s stuff: every time he did, it felt like an obvious, desperate declaration, one that Kevin refused to see. And then with Paul, the habit stuck.

Despite the high ceilings, Egyptian cotton sheets, it’s like being in high school again, sleeping over after an AAU game. 

“Do you want to talk about boys?” James asks.

Russ shrugs, not taking his eyes off the ceiling, tracing lines on the white paint there. When he’s high, his thoughts come carefully and slow, but all the more inescapable for that. He doesn’t want to think about it.

“Or we can watch some gay French shit or whatever. Like old times.” James laughs and then keeps laughing, rolling over on the bed to face Russ. 

“I can’t believe I ever thought your dumb ass was straight,” he says. “How many fucking movies did you make me watch about like, tortured Spanish priests. With subtitles and shit too.” He kicks at Russ, affectionately. “_I heard about it online and thought it sounded cool_, like. Who were you fooling.”

“You,” Russ says and James laughs so hard he falls off the bed. 

“Thank god I never had a crush on you,” Russ tells him. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.”

“Hey,” James says, from the floor. “I’m hot. I dated a Kardashian.”

“She dumped you for Tristan Thompson,” Russ points out. 

“He’s hot.” James pokes his head up over the side of the bed, like a gopher or something. Russ shakes his head and James drops back down onto the floor in despair. 

“I give up,” James says. “We’re done talking about boys now. You want Taco Bell?”

“How are we supposed to win a championship if you eating Taco Bell?” Russ says. “Discipline, baby.” 

“Shaq won and you know that motherfucker ate Taco Bell,” James says, climbing back onto the bed and pulling out his phone.

“That was before people invented nutrition,” Russ tells him, serious. He runs his hands over his chest, getting caught up in the feeling of it.

“Steph Curry eats In-n-Out,” James pouts. Russ goes still. “And I bet no one tells him he can’t have it.”

“Kevin doesn’t,” Russ says. He’s sure of it. “He doesn’t do a single fucking thing that hurts his chances of winning. That’s all he cares about.”

“That’s not all he cares about,” James says. “He likes fake-deep Instagrams too.” 

Russ sits up, pulling his knees tight into his chest, all his lassitude gone, the slow circle of his thoughts coalescing dark and inescapable. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, shutting his eyes. He knew he would end up here. “I don’t even like him, why do I still –”

“Don’t,” James says, looking pained. He pulls himself up next to Russ and throws an arm around his shoulder. “You just got dumped, of course you’re gonna be, you know. Thinking about him.”

“Thanks, asshole,” Russ says. 

“You just need a hot new man,” James says. “He fucking hated you with PG, you know?” 

“He didn’t,” Russ says. He hadn’t even known, and if he had, he certainly hadn’t cared. Kevin had been the same on the court. With each game against OKC, he’d going further into himself, straight-backed and empty-eyed, that easy fake smile and a quick bloodless hug after games. “By the time we started, he wasn’t even fighting with me anymore.”

“Trust me, brodie,” James says. He pulls out his phone. “I am getting us Taco Bell, though.”

“Fine,” Russ says, leaning against his shoulder. “But I disapprove.” 

“Noted,” James says, twisting his neck to kiss Russ’s forehead and snapping a selfie of them. “I’ll get you a crunchwrap.”

\---

Russ is just finishing up his work-out the next morning, lying on the floor stretching out his back, when his phone rings. He’s been expecting a call from his agent and answers without looking.

“Have you figured out the thing with State Farm?” he asks. “Where are they with giving us more creative control?”

There’s a long pause, as Russ twists his knees to one side. His back cracks. 

“You’re doing State Farm?” Kevin’s voice says. “With _James_?”

“Maybe,” Russ spits back, his heart rate spiking, muscles tensing. He sits up. His cool down is fucked now anyway. 

“Don’t you spend enough time playing house with him already?” Kevin asks. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Russ yanks off his shirt, wipes the sweat off his face and throws it towards the corner of the room. “Mad I left OKC? Or just that I picked to go to a team with my friend? Wait, that sounds familiar.” 

“I told you, that had nothing to do with –”

“What the fuck do you want?” Russ interrupts. There’s nothing he wants less than to hear from KD. “Rehab too boring for you? Had to call me for a little extra motivation?”

A sharp inhale from Kevin: Russ knows it was the wrong thing to say. Back, before, when Russ had fucked up his knee, Kevin used to drive him home from the practice facility after sessions with his trainer. He’d carefully re-wrap Russ’s knee, long fingers gentle, and then blow Russ, slow and sweet, his big hands firm on Russ’s hips to keep him still. Later, when they’d both been out, Russ with his hand and Kevin with a broken foot, they’d pushed each other: who could stay at the gym later, who could do more reps, jerked each other off frantically in the showers, Kevin biting down so hard on Russ’s shoulder when he came Russ had a constant bruise. 

“You wish I were there right now, don’t you,” Russ says, brutally. He can feel himself getting hard, clenches his fist to keep from reaching down to touch himself. “You’re that desperate for dick.”

Russ can hear Kevins’ breath, coming uneven and shaky. He feels vicious. “You want to suck me off, Durant,” he says. It doesn’t need to be a question; he still knows Kevin better than he’s ever known anyone. 

Kevin makes a choked sound, his voice stuck in his throat. Russ digs his nails into his palm. His hips are working helplessly against the air, but he’s not going to give in. He’s not Kevin. “Tell me you want it.” 

“You. You know I do,” Kevin pants, and Russ laughs, mean. 

“Make you get down on your knees for me,” Russ says. “Get yourself off while I fuck your face. That’s what you want.” 

“Yes,” Kevin says, “yes, Russ.” Russ can hear the desperation in his voice, the slide of skin, the murmur of fabric. Maybe Kevin’s still in bed, eyes squeezed shut, sheets thrown down, phone on the pillow next to him. Legs spread, chest heaving, giving it up for Russ. 

Russ licks his hand and wraps it around his dick. Kevin must hear something, because he makes a thickened, stuttering sound. 

“Please,” Kevin says, and it’s so hot, pisses Russ off so much he wants to haul Kevin up, bite his ruined lips, shove his head back down. 

“Come on your face,” Russ says, his heart beating too fast. He feels light-headed with want. “Feed it to you.” 

Russ can hear Kevin come, a bitten-off gasp, a breath that’s almost a sob. His muscles tighten and he follows over the edge, eyes shut, head thrown back. His ears are ringing. 

“Russ,” Kevin says, shaky, and Russ hangs up on him.

\---

Russ spends the next couple of days hanging out with James in Houston, but there’s not enough to do. He feels itchy under his skin. Before the playoffs, he and Paul had talked about maybe getting a place up in Tahoe for a few days, swimming in the lake, lying on a dock in the sun, getting drunk. There’s nothing for him in Oklahoma City anymore, and he doesn’t want to be in LA, seeing Leonard and Paul at pick-up games.

They’re in his pool, James lying on a giant swan pool float, drinking iced tea and taking selfies like he’s an influencer; Russ swimming laps. 

“We should just go to Tahoe,” James says, when Russ hauls himself out of the water and onto the pool edge, gasping for breath. “There’s still snow, you could meet a cute Austrialian snowboarder.”

“Neither of us can snowboard,” Russ points out, chugging some water. He hates cross-training. 

“I could take lessons and you could come support me in like, a super slutty outfit and seduce my instructor,” James says. 

“Also pretty sure we’re contractually forbidden from learning to snowboard,” Russ points out. James glares at him.

“You still have the place, I know you do,” James says. “Come on, live a little.”

“Fine,” Russ says. “We’ll go.”

“Smile!” James says, holding his phone up. “We’re going on vacation!” Russ glares at him, but James takes the picture anyway.

\---

Later, when Russ is taking a break from packing to scroll through Instagram, he sees Kevin has posted another stupid fake-casual photoshoot of him shirtless, working out. The caption says _Greatness never rests._ Russ snorts, but then he flips through the rest of the pictures, like an idiot.

He keeps scrolling. James posted the picture of Russ, along with one of the selfies with him on the back of the swan. He likes it, then goes back to packing.

\---

Tahoe is nice. The house, which claims to be a cabin and is more like a mansion, is all wood and glass, tucked into the pine trees and invisible from the rest of the world. The lake stretches out super-saturated blue from the master bedroom window every morning, the air with a little bite before the sun rises all the way and the dry heat chases the cold back.

It’s not that different from how it would have been with Paul, except they spend all night getting cross-faded and watching terrible TV instead of fucking. 

The third morning there, Russ is sitting out on the dock, drinking his coffee and watching mist rise from the lake. James isn’t up yet, so Russ is alone. He kicks his feet in the water, tracks the ripples as they spread across the lake. He breaths in and out, the green scent of the trees, the freshness of the water. For the first time, he doesn’t feel the weight of what he’s lost in Oklahoma. He takes a few pictures of the sunrise, finds one he likes and posts it to his story. Maybe today he’ll convince James to try doing yoga on surfboards on the lake. 

His phone buzzes. He looks down and it’s a text from Kevin. Something opens in the pit of his stomach and worse, tugs at his chest. 

_Where are u?_ the text says. 

_Tahoe with James_ Russ writes back, before he can think better of it. _It’s nice_

For a long time, he can see that Kevin’s typing something, but he never gets a reply. 

_Hope ur enjoying ur summer_ he sends, finally, not sure if it’s meant to be cruel or sincere.

\---

It’s late at night, and James is at a casino in South Lake Tahoe with some friends of his, people Russ doesn’t know. James invited Russ out too, but they’d both known he wouldn’t go. For all James and Russ love each other, they usually don’t like each other’s friends. Sometimes Russ wonders how well they would get along if they’d met now, instead of as kids.

He’s lying on the living room, on his iPad, going through some concepts his stylist has sent. He wants a new look for the season, an evolution that doesn’t feel forced. She has some good ideas, but he’s still not sure which direction he wants to take things in. 

The doorbell rings, and Russ sighs. It’s probably one of James’s idiot friends, two hours late, who’ll want Russ to pay for his Uber to Nevada. He gets to his feet and pads barefoot to the door. 

It’s Kevin, in a black Commes des Garçons t-shirt, tight jeans, brace on his leg, his own fucking Nikes, carrying a Louis Vuitton duffle bag over one shoulder.

“What are you doing here?” Russ asks, his voice flat, blocking the doorway. He feels underdressed, unarmed, still in the swim suit he’s been wearing all day and a long-sleeved shirt of James’s he grabbed off the dock when he got out of the lake that morning. He curls his fingers around the shirt’s cuffs, shoulders tensing. 

“Harden invited me,” Kevin says. “Didn’t he tell you?” 

“No,” Russ says, “but if you wanted to go out with him you’re a little late.” 

“I didn’t,” Kevin says, soft and intense. 

“Oh,” Russ says, his breath caught in his throat. He can’t stop looking at Kevin, who’s looking down at him, dark and unknowable. 

“You gonna invite me in, man?” Kevin asks. Russ steps to one side and Kevin brushes past him, too close. Then they’re inside and Kevin has Russ pressed against the closed door, his hands gripping the loose fabric of Russ’s shirt. Russ’s throat feels raw.

“Why you wearing this,” Kevin says, almost too quiet to hear. “You hate other people’s clothes.” He’s so close Russ has to tilt his neck back, his throat exposed to Kevin.

“Just ‘cause all your shit is ugly,” Russ says, mouth still running, but all he can think is how big Kevin is, how near, the heat coming off him.

“Fuck you,” Kevin says, and then they’re kissing, Russ’s legs parting too easily so that Kevin can put a thigh between them, can push Russ back up against the door and hold him there. 

Russ grabs at Kevin’s shoulders as Kevin hauls him up, wraps one leg around Kevin’s waist. He’s pushing desperately against Kevin’s thigh already, his whole body tense with want. Kevin bites at his lips, his hands digging into Russ’s hips, running up along the skin of his back. The touch just makes Russ want more, harder, closer, and he bucks forward against Kevin. 

“Bed,” he says, barely able to get the word out because Kevin keeps chasing his mouth, kissing him again. 

“Jesus,” Kevin says, when they break apart. “Are you sure?” 

“You’re not fucking me on the couch,” Russ says, although, to be honest, in five more minutes he’d let Kevin. He feels so empty, his treacherous body yearning for it, craving it. 

Kevin swallows. “Ok,” he says, and follows Russ up the stairs. 

There’s lube on the nightstand, and Russ throws it to Kevin, who catches it, one-handed.

“No condoms?” he asks, and Russ gives him an incredulous look. 

“Right,” Kevin says, “I think I.” He’s reaching into his wallet and Russ rolls his eyes, pulls off his shirt and his shorts, before flopping onto the bed.

Kevin is undoing the buttons of his fly, watching Russ. Russ watches back, stroking his dick and Kevin swallows.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, but he’s climbing onto the bed. Russ can’t deal with it, with Kevin’s hesitancy, the same fucking bullshit again after all these years.

“I’m the one getting fucked,” he says. “Get the fuck over yourself.” 

Then Kevin’s on top of him, his face buried in Russ’s neck, one hand low on the curve of Russ’s ass, the other pinching Russ’s nipple. Russ has to shut his eyes, his breath punched out of him, his heart in his throat. He digs his nails into Kevin’s back, pushes his hips up against him, bites his lips to stay quiet. 

It’s easier once Kevin starts kissing him again, because Russ can just keep a hand on the back of Kevin’s neck. As long as he’s sucking Russ’s tongue into his mouth, Russ can’t say his name. Kevin’s trying to open him up, one handed, uncoordinated, not getting deep enough, but it’s still so much, even just the pad of his finger, catching, rough. 

“Turn over,” Kevin says, finally. His voice is shot, lower than normal. “I’m gonna. Turn over.” 

Russ does, hanging his head down between his elbows. He can feel the bed dip as Kevin sits back between his legs, runs a careful hand down his spine, then further back, his thumb just sliding inside Russ. Then, his mouth, biting kisses along the top of Russ’s ass. His other hand is digging into Russ’s thigh, and Russ can feel Kevin’s breath against his skin, each exhale like a caress. 

Kevin kisses just above where his thumb is. Russ’s thighs are shaking, a fine tremor he can’t stop, and then Kevin’s pulling out his thumb, and his mouth –

“Don’t,” Russ says, and his voice is broken. He can’t. Kevin only did this for him once. In San Francisco, 2016, after they’d lost game five to the Warriors. Neither of them had been able to sleep. They’d been in Kevin’s room and he’d asked Russ if he could, if Russ thought he might want –

It was like nothing else. Russ felt like he lost control of his body, like he’d handed over every piece of himself to Kevin. Kevin had stroked his hip and pulled off sometimes to murmur gently to him, soft sweet stupid things Russ had needed to hear. Russ came without Kevin touching his dick, pulling at the sheets, sobbing Kevin’s name. 

He can’t go through that again. 

“Ok,” Kevin says, still in that quiet voice, kissing a dimple at the base of Russ’s spine like it’s an apology. He fucks two fingers into Russ and that’s better, the burn, the stretch. Russ arches his back and squeezes his eyes shut. 

It’s easier after that, to let his body take control. He missed Kevin’s fingers, so much, bites the inside of his arm so he won’t say it. He doesn’t need to beg, though. Kevin’s mouthing at Russ’s shoulder, fucking him with three fingers now. Russ moves his hips back against Kevin, curls his toes into the sheets in an effort to stay silent. 

“You’re ready, tell me you’re ready,” Kevin asks, his forehead pressed between Russ’s shoulder blades. “Russ. Tell me.” 

Russ nods and pushes his hips into Kevin’s hand but Kevin doesn’t move. “Just tell me,” he says again, his voice cracking. “Can you just. Please.” 

“Yeah,” Russ says, and his mouth is so dry it’s hard to get the sound out. He licks his lips and tries again. “Yes.”

Russ can feel Kevin move a little away, although he keeps a hand on Russ’s thigh, gently stroking. Russ hears him open up the condom, the sound of him slicking himself, his sharp intake of breath. 

Then he’s pushing inside, inexorable. Russ goes down onto his elbows, bites his fist but it doesn’t stop the whimper that comes from the back of his throat, from deep inside his chest. 

Kevin’s silent too. He’s jerking Russ off, firm, in perfect time with his strokes. Russ makes another helpless sound, overwhelmed by it, and Kevin’s hips stutter, his hand speeding up, uncoordinated. 

“Russell,” he says. He’s draped over Russ again, one arm next to Russ’s head, holding him up, bracketing him completely. “Russ, baby.” 

Russ reaches over and squeezes Kevin’s hand, as hard as he can, whites out, and comes. 

Kevin flips him over and fucks him through the afterglow, jagged, uneven thrusts, his face pressed into Russ’s neck. Russ runs his hands over the broad expanse of Kevin’s back, kisses the junction of his neck and collarbone until Kevin pushes in deep, comes, and collapses onto him. 

Russ shudders when Kevin pulls out, clutching uselessly at him. Kevin rolls off of Russ, tying off the condom and dropping it on the floor. Russ moves with him, lying across his chest. Kevin brings a hand up, rubbing it up and down Russ’s back, like he remembers how Russ used to get, afterward. Kevin’s arms feel so good around him, big and warm and safe, and Russ is too tired, too fucked-out, to fight the feeling anymore.

“When’s James getting back?” Kevin asks, looking at the ceiling.

“No idea,” Russ says, burrowing his face into Kevin’s chest, his breathing slow and level.

“I should go, then,” Kevin says, “find a bedroom.” 

There’s a second between hearing it and understanding it. Just like three years ago, picking up his phone to see a text from Kevin, there had been a moment where he’d seen the words but hadn’t understood them. Like when you’re falling but manage to get the shot off before you hit the hardwood. 

Then the impact. The bone-jarring shock, the breath knocked out of his lungs. Every blow he swore he’d never let anyone land again, never let Kevin land again, he takes straight to the solar plexus. 

He pushes away from Kevin, out of bed, towards the bathroom. He’s sore, come still sticky on his stomach. It’s like there’s lead on his shoulders, sitting on his chest, wrapped around his legs, pulling him back towards Kevin, a warm bed that smells like them. Pulling him back to let Kevin leave him again and again. He stops in the doorway to the bathroom, grips the doorframe to keep from turning. 

“Go, then,” he says, harsh. 

“Russ,” Kevin says, and Russ can hear him getting out of bed, moving towards him. He’s going to say something, something idiotic, another excuse, another reason it shouldn’t matter to Russ. 

“Get the fuck out,” Russ says, his nails digging into the wood. Kevin does.

\---

It’s late in the morning before Russ leaves his bedroom. He’d sat in the shower, water running, head between his knees until late the night before, but Kevin’s touch wouldn’t fade from his skin, more than a memory, a fatal flaw.

He wakes up early, curled up in a corner of the bed, showered again, scrubbing at himself over and over. For a long time, he sits by the window, looking out over the lake, watching the sun climb in the sky. It seems so unfair that he still has to feel this way.

In the end, he doesn’t bother dressing up. Kevin will be long gone anyway. He pulls a sweatshirt on over a pair of work-out leggings, makes his way out.

There are voices coming from downstairs: James’s and then Kevin’s. Russ’s legs go out, and he slumps against the wall. He squeezes his eyes shut to keep anything from leaking out, bites his lip and breaths through it.

“Breathe, dude,” James says. “Seriously.” 

“I fucked him in your bed,” Kevin says. He sounds awful. “James, I’m sorry.”

“TMI,” James says, with a laugh. 

“I don’t know how you can be ok with this,” Kevin says. “If I. If he. I’d.” 

“Relax,” James says. “We’re not actually dating.” 

There’s silence. Russ can hear his own heartbeat. Everything, every picture and look from James, every stutter from Kevin, is re-orienting itself in his head.

“What?” Kevin says. Russ can hear the building edge in his voice, the threat of it, but James must be oblivious. Russ is on his feet, walking downstairs, without knowing what he’s going to do when he gets there. 

“I was just doing it to make you realize you’re still in love with him,” James says. “Which you obviously are. And he’s –”

Russ gets to the door of the kitchen to see Kevin punch James in the face. James staggers back against the cabinets, but Kevin’s looking at Russ, eyes wide and haunted. 

“What the fuck,” James says, ignored. 

“You think I’d do that?” Russ asks. “You really fucking think I’d do that to my best friend?” 

“Russ,” Kevin says, but Russ’s own fists are clenched. If he could hit Kevin he would, but he never wants to touch him again. 

“You think,” Russ says, and he’s so angry he can barely see. Kevin takes a step towards him and Russ doesn’t retreat. “You think I’d do that to someone. When you’re the one who leaves, you’re the one who –” Kevin reaches out for him and Russ snaps, “Don’t touch me.” 

“Yeah, and how long did you wait before you were fucking PG?” Kevin recoils, his face darkening. “Why should I be surprised to hear that you’ve moved on to the next teammate.”

“Ouch,” James says, under his breath, from over by the freezer. Russ and Kevin turn to glare at him in tandem. He holds his hands up. “Sorry, just go back to ignoring me.” 

“Just because you’re too scared to let anyone else fuck you doesn’t mean I am,” Russ says, turning away from James. “Why do you care? You left.”

“Jesus, Russell,” Kevin says. “You’re the one who ended it, remember? Was I supposed to spend the rest of my life in Oklahoma, losing? Was that what you wanted for us?”

“I wanted you,” Russ yells. The room is suddenly silent, the only sound Russ’s ragged breathing. “I wanted you,” he repeats, quieter. He looks down. 

“Russ,” Kevin says, and there’s too much in his voice, that soft curling pity that Russ can’t stand. He runs.

\---

There’s nowhere to go except the lake. Russ ends up on the dock, pulls his sweatshirt and leggings off and dives into the water. The cold of it takes the breath out of him. He swims out as far as he dares, water deep and endless underneath him. When his muscles start to shake, he stops, floats on his back and looks up at the dome of the sky, impossibly cloudless. He tries to lose track of time, of himself, in it, but he can’t help but wonder if Kevin’s left yet. If that was the last time, the last last time, he’ll see him off the court.

Finally, he swims back. As he gets closer to the shore, he sees a hunched figure sitting on the end of the dock. He can tell it’s Kevin from the slope of his shoulders, the long line of his legs. 

“Hey,” Kevin says, when Russ is close enough to hear. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” Russ says, swimming the rest of the way in, levering himself up. The water runs down his torso, his briefs cling to him and Kevin is looking. Despite himself, he warms under Kevin’s gaze, better than the high altitude sun on his skin. 

“Did James really invite you?” Russ asks, sitting down next to Kevin. Kevin passes Russ his sweatshirt and Russ pulls it back on.

“He did,” Kevin says. Their feet dangle in the water next to each other, and Russ wonders who will give in first, brush their legs together. 

“Asshole,” Russ says. They’re quiet for a little bit. “What did he tell you?” he asks, finally. 

“He sent pictures,” Kevin says, handing over his phone. Their hands touch, and Kevin leans over him to unlock it. There’s screenshots, saved: Russ in the neon light, bags under his eyes, soft smile on his face. Russ and James in bed together, James kissing his forehead while Russ laughs. Russ, just out of the pool, his naked chest. Pictures he doesn’t remember James taking: him drinking coffee, feet tucked under himself. His face soft with sleep on the couch. His eyes bright with laughter. 

“Oh,” Russ says. He never thought of himself this way. He’s prickly, a loner, an asshole. Not soft, happy. Desirable.

“Is that how I look to you?” he asks. He looks down at his bare knees. Kevin knocks their shoulders together, tangles their feet. 

“Yeah,” Kevin says. “When you’re not yelling at me.” 

“I can’t believe you punched him,” Russ says. “He’s the first person you’ve ever punched, admit it.”

Kevin laughs a little. Russ leans his head carefully against Kevin’s chest. He’s still so afraid. 

“I kinda lost it,” Kevin says. “I couldn’t. You don’t know what it’s been like.” Russ feels the soft press of Kevin’s lips to the top of his head.

“I watched you win with them for three years,” Russ says. He can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. 

“It was the right thing for me to do,” Kevin says. “Going to the Warriors.” Russ shuts his eyes, feeling himself tense, preparing himself for the same fight, again. “But I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, for how I left. I should have told you in person.”

“Yeah,” Russ says. His voice is thick, too quiet, too shaky. “You should have.”

“I was afraid to,” Kevin says. “Because. If I told you in person and not anyone else, then it would have meant.” He lets out a shuddering breath. “It would have made what you were to me real.”

Russ presses his face into Kevin’s chest, half in his lap. He inhales Kevin, the musk of him, grips at his shirt too-tightly. 

“I wish you told me,” he says, his voice raw with it. “I needed you to tell me.”

“I know,” Kevin says. “I fucked up.” Russ can feel the vibration of Kevin’s voice all through him, the speeding tick of his heart. “Russ, I’m sorry.”

Russ can’t say anything. He’s been waiting so long for Kevin to admit that, but now that he has, he’s frozen. The breeze coming off the lake feels too cold, the only warm, real part of him where he’s pressed to Kevin. He doesn’t know if it’s enough. 

“But, can you, could you see a future with? With us.” Kevin’s voice is soft, unsteady.

Russ is quiet. Kevin’s arms are tight around Russ, his hand clutching at Russ’s arm and then gradually, consciously loosening.

“I know I left you, and the team,” Kevin says. “I know you think I gave up. I know I’m – afraid, sometimes, because you’re not the person I thought I’d fall in love with.” 

Russ makes a little sound, unable to keep it in. 

“Because if you can’t,” Kevin says. “I can’t do this anymore, Russ. We can’t keep doing this to each other.”

Russ wants to bury himself in Kevin, wants to stay wrapped up in him. He wants the last three years with Kevin next to him, Kevin hugging him after Russ won his MVP, Kevin at his side and his back. He wants to wake up next to Kevin tomorrow morning, and the morning afterwards. He wants to see Kevin’s stupid penthouse in Brooklyn, to sit together in his backyard in Houston counting lightning bugs. Wants a future with him, more than he wants their past back.

He lets go of Kevin, sits up straight to look at him. Kevin looks back, his shoulders sagging a little. Braced. Russ reaches out, touches his cheek.

“You love me?” he asks. Kevin nods, slow. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Me too,” Russ tells him, “obviously.” Then Kevin is surging forward, cupping his face in both hands and kissing him. Russ fists his hands in Kevin’s shirt, pulling their bodies closer together and moans into the kiss, which makes Kevn shudder against him.

Russ is lost in Kevin, the taste and touch and feel of him, until he hears pounding footsteps down the dock.

“Yes!” James is yelling, and when Russ breaks the kiss he sees James has a bottle of champagne in his hands. He pops the cork and dumps it over Russ and Kevin’s heads. Russ turns his head up, catching the spray in his mouth, and Kevin laughs, leaning in to suck champagne off of Russ’s skin.

“Love wins!” James yells, cannon-balling into the lake. 

“What an idiot,” Kevin says, grabbing the bottle and drinking the rest down. 

Russ watches James, black eye coming in, splashing ecstatically and yelling, and Kevin, leaning back, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, unable to hide his smile. He pushes Kevin into the lake and then dives in after him, kissing him when he comes up for air. 

“I don’t know,” Russ says, cold fresh water and sweet champagne mixed on his tongue, “I kinda feel like he’s on to something.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [jamwingles](http://jamwingles.tumblr.com) and [Emmy](http://veryspecificfantasties.tumblr.com) as always for their help and kindness. thanks also to everyone on tumblr who has shared my love for these two for literally years. 
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.


End file.
